More Than Strength
by Mystikwriter
Summary: He ignores the growing burn in his muscles as exhaustion sets in, a spreading numbness throughout his body.


The sword started out light as a feather, but now it drags at his hand. Blood runs down the channel, slicking his gloves and staining his armor from wrist to elbow. The acid stench surrounds him, a fresh wave of poisonous blood spraying him as he slices a dark spawn open from shoulder to hip. He dances aside to avoid the steaming guts that pile up at the falling dark spawn's feet.

He's distantly aware of the others. The snap-sizzle of Wynne's magic, the smash of armor and exultant shout as Alistair knocks his foe back, Zevran's wild laugh as he knifes his prey from behind.

There hadn't been any time for plans. Camael's only warning was the barest flicker of awareness swelling behind his eyes before the dark spawn were pouring out from behind the rocks.

Camael sweeps his shield out, his arm shuddering beneath the impact, bones crunching as a hurlock falls back, face a mulch of bloody flesh and exposed bone. His sword is a gleaming blur, sliding through exposed flesh and rent armor, bringing death with every swift slice and thrust. He ignores the growing burn in his muscles as exhaustion sets in, a spreading numbness throughout his body.

A kick snaps a genlock's crossbow, Camael's teeth bared in a furious snarl as he takes it's head. Everything is red as he pulls on Berserker fury, grabs at the rage that has been simmering beneath his breast bone ever since Howe slaughtered his family, wraps it around his bones and feels it like a fire in his lungs. It blurs the pain until all he knows is the acrid, burning stench of tainted blood and the sharp resistance as he throws himself against tainted flesh.

He thinks it would be easy to live in this state, if he let himself. His anger burned, left everything seared and numb in its wake, until all that remained was the heft of his sword and the sticky, copper taste of blood in his mouth.

When his end is near, when the day comes that the nightmares spread tangled shadows into his waking hours, he thinks he will let the rage take him. No pain, no fear, just burning rage to carry him and all the dark spawn he can reach into death's cold embrace.

Another genlock is reduced to pulp beneath his shield when he hears the heavy silence. A flick of his wrist flings the blood off his sword, and he keeps it in hand rather than deal with the mess of having to clean both sword and sheath at a later time. The dead surround him, the same for his companions when he looks to them.

A pulse of blue power washes over them all as Wynne casts a healing spell.

Zevran cleans his blades on a nearby corpse before sheathing them. "Is it just me, or are there more of them every time we pass this way?"

"The dark spawn grow bolder the longer they go uncontested." Wynne picks her way through the bodies towards them. One of the bodies grunts as she passes by, reaches for her with a choked and bloody snarl. Spinning her staff she blasts it was a surge of raw power.

Camael doesn't respond right away, takes deep, even breathes as he tries to tamp down the rage that continues to burn in his blood. When he does speak there is the lingering remnants of a snarl lurking beneath the bitten off words. "Soon. After I speak with the Dalish, it's on to Denerim." As he speaks his voice smoothes out, looses the rough edge of a growl. He follows Zevran's lead and cleans his sword on the body of the hurlock whose' face he smashed in. "After Denerim, the Archdemon."

"Do you really think we have a chance at winning this thing?" Alistair asks quietly.

His sword is still naked in his hand, tainted blood dripping from the tip. He looks young, standing amongst the bodies of the dead, and it reminds Camael how alone they are. Two of the last Grey Wardens in Ferelden.

He glances at Wynne and Zevran, both watching him; one with solemn appraisal, the other with a wry grin as they wait for his answer. The last of their kind in Ferelden maybe, but not alone.

He moves closer to Alistair, rests a hand on his shoulder, the motion more important than actual contact since he knows Alistair can't feel it beneath the heavy weight of his armor. "I think we have a chance. It's a start."


End file.
